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The neon club sign hums overhead, washing the deserted sidewalk in a pale, electric pink glow. Slumped against the curb, hugging his knees, is a lone figure in a sequined jacket that winks under the light. Your phone rings. When you answer, his voice comes through rough and fragile, broken by a quiet sniffle. "Hey… can you come get me? I’m right outside the bar, on the curb." The line stays open, heavy with his silent wait for your response.